


Adolescence and Iridescence

by Christine M (HowNovel)



Category: Starman (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-06
Updated: 1999-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowNovel/pseuds/Christine%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul and Scott hang out at a weekend cabin in the Virginia hills owned by a friend of Liz Baynes. Studying the many birds making their habitat in the vicinity, Scott learns something about adolescence, while Paul marvels at nature's variety. Is Wylie really a bird watcher?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adolescence and Iridescence

Adolescence and Iridescence

a STARMAN story by Chris M

"What's going to happen to me? Will I grow antlers, or ... antennas?" an anguished Scott had asked his father, an alien being who had recently returned unexpectedly from deep space.

An equally confused Starman, still adapting to human form—it was only his second experience with this sort of thing—had replied, “I don't know." He'd seen antlers, but _what_ were antennas? He realized he had a new worry: what would this child become? Starman did know, from his two hurried journeys through human DNA, that he would not wake one morning to find, for instance, an empty carapace and a glistening, vulnerable Scott growing new armor nearby; or a Scott cocooned; or a feathered Scott; he did not fear that Scott would become something entirely…other.

But Scott's parentage was unprecedented, and there were bound to be some surprises. And from what Starman had heard from another father of a teenager, nobody understood them—even the 100% human ones. His new friend, Liz Baines, had said something similar—nobody knew how to raise them, either. But perhaps there was wiser counsel to be found among earth beings. He hoped so.  
  
---  
  
Starman hadn't been on the planet for long when Liz had given him a set of keys to a weekend place where he and Scott could stay. It was owned by a friend of hers who was working on a story overseas. "She's back and forth a lot to other countries, so she likes her friends to stay there and keep an eye on the place now and then when we come to Washington. She'll be away for at least another month this time, so why don't you and Scott just stay there for a while until you get your sea legs?"

"Sea legs? Didn't you say the place is in the woods?"

"That's just what I mean! You must be having culture shock," Liz said, looking sympathetic and concerned. "Humans get it just going from one country to another. It takes time to adjust to a new language and culture and feel like yourself again—and here you are on a whole new planet. You have a lot to learn about Earth if you're going to pretend to be a native. And this could give you a good place to practice your photography—you have a lot to learn about that, too, if you're going to be another Paul Forrester''

Clearly, Liz felt some doubt about the feasibility of Starman's plan to assume the acclaimed photojournalist's identity, but she was willing to help him try.  
  
---  
  
The weekend place was a wood house built on a slope above the Rappahannock River in Virginia, in an area used mostly by vacationers. After arriving there it had taken "Paul" and Scott a while to stop feeling adrenaline at _every_ unexpected sound, as they were still haunted by recent stress: first, a harrowing flight from FSA agents in Seattle; then, a disorienting visit to Paul Forrester's apartment in Chicago and another narrow escape from Agent Fox (and an old girlfriend of Paul's) there; and finally, a daring flight right into the lion's den—Washington, DC—and back out again by road, 60 miles south to this place in a rental car. But once safely indoors, spending their first evening near a brisk Woodstove fire, they finally began to shed the tensions of those recent experiences.

The place was furnished casually; comfortable old castoffs were mixed with artwork, furniture and books from many of the countries where Liz's friend had worked. Starman found that asking Scott about these artifacts gave him a way to get the boy to talk to him without becoming too personal. And through Starman's questions, Scott began to get a sense of the alien's limitations and needs. Scott did the best he could (and he did pretty well, for a 14-year-old, surprising himself with how much he could remember from school and public television shows) to identify the objects and explain their uses: carvings of gods and goddesses, elephants and dolphins; masks and paintings, pottery and textiles; and in every room, books, magazines, and manuscripts.

As each object drew the alien's interest, the pair began to realize the extent of the adjustment both would have to make if the alien were really to stay here for any length of time. This planet had countless cultures, languages, and ways of thought, and so far, Starman had only scratched the surface of a single one of them. Scott hadn't been around much yet, either.

The two slept soundly in the country quiet, and the next morning, sun poured in through tall windows, revealing blue sky, big trees, and sparkling water nearby. Pines, locusts, oaks, hollies, dogwoods, and redbuds—all indigenous trees, planted by squirrels and birds and tended lovingly by Liz's friend—grew close to the house and overhung its decks with welcoming boughs. Through the branches, mulched paths could be seen winding past flowering viburnums, mountain laurels, mayapples, and other native woodland plants, down the hill toward the shallow river. It was spring, and the early morning woods echoed with the songs of nesting birds.

_This was okay,_ Scott decided.  
  
---  
  
Starman lay in a hammock with his eyes closed, trying to distinguish between the different bird songs and wondering about the locations and habits of the different species. There was an amazing variety of sounds; he heard songs, squawks and the peeps of baby birds in nests, The thick woods made it a challenge to spot the noisy creatures, and the task was complicated by the racket made by other life forms such as squirrels, frogs, insects, and children splashing in the river. He thought he had never heard so many beings speaking at once, each with a unique voice.

It had occurred to Starman that perhaps eventually he and Scott could learn to use the human cultural environment the way these birds used their woods, simply fitting in so well that it was difficult for a predator to distinguish them from their surroundings. On the other hand, Paul Forrester was not very much like a small woodland bird. He was more like the big redheaded one that drummed his beak importantly on tree trunks, or the bright red cardinal that flashed against the shadows, or the loud blue ones—Scott said they were called blue jays—which did not blend in so well. They must have other ways of evading pursuit. Flight would have been useful, but he and Scott could not do that in these bodies...

His thoughts were interrupted as Scott came crashing through the underbrush, ignoring the path, setting small birds to alarmed flight and disturbing two squirrels which had been stationed in the trees above Paul, inspecting him with fascination. They stretched out their necks toward Scott, scolded loudly, and waved their tails at him in what looked very much like irritation.

"Hey, are you going to lie in that hammock all day?"

Starman opened his eyes. Following the sound of chattering, he saw above him, one in each tree the hammock was slung between, the indignant faces of the squirrels which apparently had been spying on him.

"Looks like some tree-rats have found you," said Scott. "Watch out"" they may be working for the government."

Starman was glad to see Scott relaxed enough to joke again. "What do you want to do?" he asked his son.

"Well, you might think this is kind of weird, but..." and then Scott realized that "weird" was one thing he did not have to worry about, with this guy, and smiled to himself. He started again. "Would you like to go walking? There's a Civil War park near here.

"Okay," said Starman agreeably. He found one of Paul's cameras, and they set off down country roads to the battlefield park Once there, Scott began to wonder if this had been a good idea. He was starting to get just a little tired of the alien's endless questions—and every historical marker they passed just prompted more.

"Come on," he finally said impatiently, "that was all a long time ago. Let's just keep walking, okay?" And Starman filed "civil war" along with several other subjects he'd already collected, such as those multi-armed deities and the questions they raised about human "religion," which he'd need to revisit at some future opportunity when Scott felt more like talking, or when some other human could fill him in. 

After they'd been hiking for a while, Scott suddenly tensed. Starman, sensitive to Scott's moods, looked in the direction of Scott's gaze and saw a man disappearing around a bend in the trail. "What is it?'' Starman asked. "I think he might be following us," said Scott. "He was looking through binoculars and taking notes. Then he turned and went the other way'' Father and son immediately stepped off the trail and cut across country through the thick woods. These were the woods that gave the Battle of the Wilderness its name—so dense that in places it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. A thick mulch of last year's fallen leaves covered the ground, and the pair stole quietly back toward their house.

Off the trail, Scott quickly lost his sense of direction as tree branches closed in overhead and he lost sight of the sun, but his father reassured him that he was a mapmaker by profession and could not get lost—and anyway, if all else failed, all they had to do was head for the nearest Interstate Highway. Scott, the graduate of a weekend camping trip designed to teach children basic survival skills, made a note to himself to tell his father about following watercourses downhill.  
  
---  
  
Good exercise and fresh air gave the pair an appetite for more of the same, and the next morning they set out again in a different direction. They walked past more vacation homes, small farmsteads, elegant horse farms with immaculate white fences, and unpainted dwellings sporting rusty cars on blocks. They crossed small creeks, called "runs" here, and spotted several deer in a tract of woods posted with signs announcing that this place was reserved for private hunting parties. Scott developed a technique of staying slightly ahead of his father, so that Starman's inevitable questions tended to trail behind him, and he could ignore them, at least part of the time. There were some things he wanted to think about. If this strange man would just be quiet for a while. Besides, "Paul'' should practice more with his cameras if he really intended to make a living as a photographer.

At a railroad crossing, in a small town with gaily painted Victorian houses, they came to a country store painted bright red with a big sign advertising "Lotto, Bagels, and Sweet Potato Pie." "Whoa-ho!" said Scott, “It looks just like the store in The Waltons!" and charged in, followed by a Starman who looked about to ask another question.

Inside they found cold drinks, and passed up the packaged bagels in favor of homemade sweet potato pies. Scott suggested they buy a post card showing the Blue Ridge Mountains to send to Liz, and they added that to their purchases. "There's a picnic table behind the store, if you'd like to eat there," said the clerk, smiling approvingly at the father-son duo.

Just then, through a window behind the cash register they spotted the man they'd seen the day before in the park— dressed like a hiker, carrying binoculars, and headed down the road toward the store. They hoped they hadn't been seen, and decided the picnic table behind the store was as good a place to stay out of sight as any; but soon the man came out the back door too, fruit juice bottle in hand, and walked right up to them. 

"Mind if I join you? It's really starting to warm up today!" he said as he sat down and took a long drink from the bottle. Starman and Scott tried to look casual as the man slipped a notebook from his pocket and began reviewing its pages. "Saw three bluebirds and two pileated woodpeckers on this stretch of road today! The populations seem to be healthier this year," he said cheerfully.

"You're a bird watcher!” Scott exclaimed with a big grin. The man mistook Scott's relief for a fervent interest and said, "Are you, too? It's a great way to spend a vacation in the country. I'm helping out with the population count, for the Audubon Society.''

Starman, thinking of the many Earth cultures and societies Scott had told him about at the house, asked, "Which country is that in?”

"I know what you mean," said the man ruefully. "Around here, they think we're all Tree Huggers from Cloud Cuckooland."

"Yeah," complained Scott, "But I can never figure out what's wrong with hugging trees. It's better than killing them, isn't it?"

"It's that old pioneer mentality from 200 years ago—if it can't be used by humans, it's no good. If it justphotosynthesizes, chop it down," lamented the bird watcher.

''Yeah, and if it breathes, shoot it," added Scott bitterly.

Starman, who was catching on, contributed, "And if it flies, shoot it down and chase it all the way to Winslow."

Scott and the bird watcher looked blank. Winslow?

Scott recovered rapidly. "Can I see your book?" he asked their new friend, before anyone could ask any more questions. They spent an enjoyable half hour munching snacks and identifying the birds they'd been watching at the house, It turned out that their bird watcher was staying in a cabin not far from theirs, and he was able to tell them quite a lot about the local wildlife. Even better, he seemed to enjoy answering Starman's questions. His name was Ralph, and when he wasn't on vacation he was a theoretical physicist; like Paul, he was usually pretty curious about things himself.

Finally they parted, promising to meet again. Scott and Starman headed back home to another cool evening, woodstove fire, and a leisurely exploration of the odd assortment of books they found. Among them, Starman found a Peterson's bird identification guide just like the one Ralph had carried. And near it on the bookshelf, Scott found a pair of binoculars.

Secretly, Scott was delighted. He never would have admitted this to his classmates in Seattle, but he had always been intrigued by the idea of bird watching. The great thing about being in a vacation area was that nobody knew you, and you could do weird things if you wanted. And with this new father, the weirder the better. Maybe this situation had its good points after all.  
  
---  
  
The two settled into a holiday routine. They walked, swam in the river, talked, and read. They were bitten by sand flies, mosquitos, and chiggers, got sunburns, and caught poison ivy. Food became a major interest; the boy was always hungry, and everything was, of course, new to the alien. When they stumbled upon a farmer's market near the battlefield museum they started to plan their days around devising meals with greens grown locally and fresh vegetables brought up to the market by farmers in the South. They sampled their first duck eggs, purple cauliflower, and grits. The growers in the market, like the bird watcher, were amused by Starman's many questions, and in just a few visits there, Scott learned more about food, its preparation, and the ethics and economics of its production than he had ever thought to wonder about.

The days soon became warm and muggy, and the woodstove was forgotten as Starman and Scott developed a new habit of sitting out on the deck in the evenings, listening to the night birds, insects, and sounds of human life from nearby cabins—screen doors slamming, children playing night-hide-and-seek, dogs barking. One moonlit night, down by the river, they heard women's voices; there was splashing, laughing, and singing. Several voices started singing on different notes; gradually they improvised different harmonies, and finally resolved the sound on a single, powerful note. Scott said it sounded like angels having a party. Curious, Starman and Scott walked partway dawn the path and saw a small campfire on the sand spit, with a group of women dancing around it. This pleased them, but they felt they shouldn't intrude, so they retreated back to their house and resumed their enjoyment of the night sounds.

In the mornings they headed back to the deck again with their orange juice to watch the activity of the local wildlife around the house. There was always something new to notice. For several days they observed the progress of a squirrel carrying large mouthfuls of twigs, stopping frequently to readjust its load. It followed a complicated route using several tree trunks and many elevations of interlocking branches, industriously repeating this trip as it built a nest high up in a loblolly pine. Nearby they found a dead oak where woodpeckers had nesting holes.

And they suspected that there was a nest of blue jays near the front door, because the one time they sat on the front porch, one of the brilliantly feathered blue birds flew toward them and squawked loudly until they gave up and went inside. A day or two later, when they were returning to the house by the front door, a jay was perched on the railing and watched them curiously as they approached. There was something different about the bird's appearance—rounded and childish—and it clearly didn't have the sense to be afraid of the two large humanoids. "It's a young one—the babies must be leaving the nest'" Scott exclaimed.

Over the next couple of days there seemed to be adult blue jays everywhere, hopping around, working the mulch in search of insects, flying from branch to branch, and swooping to catch moths in flight. Sometimes they passed so nearby that Starman and Scott could hear the sound of the air in their feathers—another new sound for Starman to file away in his memory. Their search for food was incessant.

One particularly hot and muggy day, when Earth's gravity felt heavier than usual, making it impossible to feel ambitious about doing anything, Starman and Scott sat on the deck dozing and reading. Hearing a commotion, they followed it to its source. Four young-looking blue jays huddled together on a slender dogwood branch not far away, but there was no nest in sight. From time to time, when an adult jay approached them, they all squawked loudly, flapped their wings, and moved up and down. The adult seemed to be pecking their beaks.

''They're begging for food," said Scott excitedly. "The adults are feeding them!" Indeed, the adults appeared to be doing more than that. Starman suggested they might have rousted the young birds out of the nest, and then the young ones had gotten as far as this branch and declined to go any further. The adults seemed to be demonstrating to them what to do. They made short flights and looked back to the young ones. They hopped from stump to ground and back to stump again, and then looked to see if the young ones were watching. They tore up the mulch and brought the food back to the branch, and then repeated the process.

This sort of activity went on for bouts. The young birds simply refused to budge from their branch except when the adults brought them food. Then, when an adult approached, they began their loud crying and their imitation of baby birds. This looked rather foolish to Scott, as they were almost fully grown. They still had that immature, rounded look and some fuzz, but they dearly also had enough feathers to have gotten them safely from the nest to this branch.

A fifth young jay, more advanced than the others, was flying about and squawking, showing off for the others. This might be the one Starman and Scott had seen on the front porch. But when a food delivery arrived, it joined the others and required to be fed by the parent.

This family drama occupied the attention of Starman and Scott off and on throughout the day until, in late afternoon, a wind blew up. There was a freshness in the air, and the temperature began to drop. The animals and birds seemed to disappear. A sound of rolling thunder came nearer and nearer, the invigorating scent of ozone swept into the house, and soon the wind was blowing so hard that the younger trees and the tall, skinny pines leaned over, almost parallel to the ground. Branches whipped back and forth, scraping the roof, and Starman and Scott rushed to close windows as sheets of rain began to pelt the house and loud crashes shook it, rending the air. "It's like a hurrricane!" shouted Scott.

Starman expressed what both were thinking. "The baby birds, what will happen to them in this?" 

Scott said, "This reminds me of something my mom used to sing when the wind scared me." Feeling a little foolish, he sang "Rockabye Baby" for Starman. He couldn't help feeling amazed that the man had never heard it before; this new father certainly wasn't difficult to entertain.

"When I got older and thought about the words, I thought maybe the mother was really mad at the baby, saying it would fall out of the tree like that. But maybe it was really about birds and what happens to them in a storm." The memory of Jenny singing the lullaby calmed Scott somehow, but it made Starman feel sad that he had missed hearing her sing it to Scott.

As soon as the storm had passed, Starman and Scott went out to look in the tree where the birds had sat There were just three bedraggled birds there now. Two were still clinging to the same branch, and the third had moved to a different branch. "Maybe one fell," said Scott, and he looked in the undergrowth beneath the tree, but found no bird there. "Maybe it flew away," said Starman.  
  
---  
  
Indeed, as the days passed, there did appear to be a full complement of blue jays. Once again they seemed to be everywhere, making the woods near the house their playground, food market, and training facility. The adolescent birds now flew around together in a group, never being separated for long. Back and forth over the house they went, still calling out in odd voices that were no longer peeps, and not yet fully squawks. They took turns doing stunts and ganging up on each other, swooping and gliding among the branches. In the clear days that followed the big storm, they were having a glorious time with their new lives_ Yet still, when an adult approached, they settled on the nearest branch, huddled together, squawked and flapped their wings like babies, and held their beaks up for food.

One morning when Starman was waiting with his camera for a woodpecker to come out of its nesting hole, Scott got bored and went to walk in the park by himself. Running into Ralph there, he told him about the jays' progress and asked, "Do you think they will ever learn to take care of themselves?"

“Sure, it's all in their DNA," said Ralph. "Every cell in their body is an information system, fine-tuned for countess generations and programmed to play out in a certain way. The way all their ancestors have done, so that they could survive and have children like themselves—or, sometimes, better, and then those changes get passed along too. The adults learn new skills too, and pass those along. Blue jays seem pretty creative."

"Awesome! So, the way their feathers are sure to change from fuzz to that iridescent blue at the time it's programmed to do it, their feelings are changing too?" asked Scott "They'll be ready to fend for themselves when they have to?”

"Good question!" said the physician, who had taught enough awkward youngsters of college age to suspect that Scott (whether he was aware of it or not) was asking about more than just blue jays. "Yes, I guess the information systems that run their brain chemicals must develop hand-in-hand with their other forms of development.. So yes, they will find their own food when they are ready to—and feel good about doing it, too."

''They'd better hurry up—they're running their parents ragged," commented Scott. "Those hungry babies are big birds now.”

"Don't worry. They'll get there, and the parents will keep feeding them until they do," said Ralph reassuringly_ "All in good time.”

The two talked lazily of birds, DNA, and theories about the origin of life as they kept a watch for birds and Ralph occasionally made a note, or pointed out a new bird to Scott. This DNA business was pretty interesting, thought Scott. He had a feeling the alien might be able to tell him more about it. That would be good for a change, he thought— me asking him questions about life!

As they passed a parking lot near the park entrance, Ralph stopped and said quietly, "By the way, do you know that guy?" He gestured with his chin toward a large man climbing awkwardly out of small rental car. He had a notebook in one hand, binoculars in the other, and a camera slung around his neck. Ralph added, "I don't know him, and I know most of the bird watchers around here by now. And the funny thing is, yesterday, when I was up on the hill above the river, I saw you and your dad on the path on the other side, and he almost seemed to be following you.”

They looked at the man. He had the pallor an office worker and looked uncomfortable in the summer heat. His clothes were appropriate for hiking—except for shiny black office shoes. Most odd, there was just something about his face that was not consistent with the alert, intelligent expression usually seen on bird watchers. 

"Uh-oh," said Scott. "I'd better get back to the house and tell my father. Listen, if anyone asks you..."

"Don't worry, I won't sing," said Ralph. "Give my regards to your father. And good luck to you both." 

Scott shook hands with him manfully, and melted quietly into the woods. A very bright kid, Ralph thought to himself. Nice people. Paul obviously wasn't really a professional photographer, but whatever reason the pair might have for taking cover here, Ralph's instinct told him it must be a good one that he would sympathize with.  
  
---  
  
Ralph sauntered over to the man in the black shoes and introduced himself. "Did you just get here? A fellow bird watcher, right? Those binoculars are a dead giveaway! Have you spotted any Snickerdoodles in Virginia yet? Frodos? Boobies? Blue-Cockaded Trhifcs? Why don't we have lunch and compare our life lists? I have a couple hundred species now. Would you like to hear about them?"

Agent Wylie had a hard time following the conversation and thought the man was a little odd, but then, bird watchers were supposed to be odd, weren't they? Maybe he knew something useful. Wylie could pump him. And lunch sounded good. Air conditioning sounded even better. He already had enough mosquito bites from this miserable place to prove he'd been here, anyway. And was he getting hazard pay for this? Ha!

Anyway, even bug-eyed space aliens wouldn't be dumb enough to hang out around a military park so close to FSA HQ—half the off-duty agents must be here, pursuing their boring Civil War hobbies! And was he supposed to follow up on every report of a father and son on a summer camping trip? Wylie made an executive decision: he went to lunch with his new pal, and immediately felt better about his career choice.

Ralph steered him to an excellent restaurant in Fredericksburg—well worth taking the time to drive all the way over there to sample it, he said. And if the service turned out to be slow, they both agreed the food was worth waiting for. Wylie thoroughly enjoyed their conversation, which was mostly about intriguing events reported in tabloid newspapers. Wylie paid i:l;Je tab—might as well get some use out of this government expense account He forgot to take notes, though.

Contentedly, Wylie wrote off the rest of the day on his work log as "research" and headed back to his motel for a well deserved nap.  
  
---  
  
Starman and Scott, leaving the borrowed house, were treated to one last sight of the young jays, who circled and swooped over the driveway, and seemed to call out "Goodbye!" and "Watch out for the fox'" in their raucous new voices. Scott wasn't sure why, but he had the feeling that he'd be growing iridescent feathers himself, soon"" or something—but that it would be okay. 

And, as father and son reached the nearest Interstate Highway, they knew—though they didn't know they knew it, yet—that, one way or another, they wouldn't really get lost in the years to come.

The End


End file.
